


You

by okapi



Series: The Fucking Machine 'verse [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega John Watson, POV First Person, POV Second Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Sleep Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Alpha Sherlock takes care of Omega John during heat.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Fucking Machine 'verse [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/948231
Comments: 23
Kudos: 123
Collections: Season of Kink, Story Works





	You

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a writing exercise experimenting with the POV second person for the DW Story works Take a Leap August challenge: New Perspective. Also for my Season of Kink bingo square B-5 Aphrodisiacs/Altered Mental States.

You.

I wake to you.

You are the warm rock to my reptile, stretched beneath my body providing heat and support.

I do not move, not one muscle. I take a moment to simply listen and feel and breathe.

You.

Your breath is steady and slow. Your pulse is steady and slow, too, a resting heartbeat.

You are in deep sleep, the restorative stage; of this, I am almost certain.

My heart swells.

The air is thick with the scent of a contented Omega in heat. Yours is the most perfect of its kind, and I do not make this evaluation idly. I have smelt plenty of Omegas in my time. You exude this pheromone-soaked essence with every exhale and every weeping, no matter how microscopic, of your body’s pores and ducts. Drool, sweat. Tears, too, if there were any, but there aren’t. 

Something more primal than my heart soars at this. 

_The Alpha has fucked well, and his Omega is content._

One corner of my mouth twitches as the thought forms and dissolves. I could become very drunk very quickly if I dwelt on the notion for too long, and I don’t want that. This is only the lull between the first and second round. I have to keep my head. It’s not easy.

You have pleased your Alpha so much. Difficult to resist the natural urge to shout your praises from the rooftop.

The skin of your nape feels soft, and the thin layer of sweat there tastes utterly delicious.

You don’t move.

Nothing about your body changes at the slight brush of my tongue to your skin.

I take a deep breath and mentally prepare to ease myself away from you. My lower body protests at this plan; it wants us to remain locked together.

_Sherlock, let me keep your prick warm while we sleep. And, please, God, please, use me, you bloody horse-hung genius._

Your words. Begging. As if I wouldn’t. As if we hadn’t had the discussion often and oftener, sober and otherwise.

If I hadn’t been driven mad already by your wretched scent, by your warrior’s body, by my hopeless devotion to you, those words would’ve done it.

The trust of it humbles me, and the filthiness of it enflames. And the combination is more than I can withstand, horse-hung genius or not.

My prick is half-hard and still inside you.

I dozed _in_ you.

Warm?

Yes, you’ve kept my prick warm. And half-engorged.

Lucky?

Spoilt as a baby is closer to the truth.

Before unhelpful thoughts about whether I deserve such coddling arise, I place my hand on either side of you and slowly, slowly, slowly lift my body up, angling so that I might slid my prick out of you as gently as possible. The moment my prick is completely withdrawn is marked by an obscenely wet and obscenely loud gushing noise.

I check. I check again.

You haven’t moved.

No furrowing of the brow. No noise of protest. No change in your breathing. Not a twitch.

Now I am certain.

You are in a deep sleep. Your body is healing from all it has put you through.

Good.

I perform a slight gymnastic trick to get myself off the bed and onto my feet.

I stand and stare. There is enough light from the small window to make out the contours I know so well. Your beauty is something I drink in, taking it into myself in big gulps of awe, lungfuls of air that you have perfumed with your bliss.

God, I’m drunk on you.

So drunk, you almost tempt me back to bed, back to you, but no, I turn and, leaving the door wide open, move across the hall. I empty my bladder and give myself a cursory wash in the basin. I look at myself in the mirror and run a hand through my hair.

Your voice in my head teases.

_Vain Alpha bastard with your fucking Renaissance curls and a mouth made to suck my Omega prick._

I turn my head. I strain my ears. The tiniest mewl of distress would be like a siren, sending me back to you in a flash.

Nothing. 

_The Alpha has fucked well, and his Omega is content._

I permit myself a fleeting half-smile of pride before bending my head and twist my neck to drink water directly from the tap.

It’s not enough. You’ve wrung me dry, as parched as the Sahara.

Another check of the bedroom and I move silently down the hall to the kitchen.

I drink more water.

Ice cold and lots of it.

There’s a large thermos flask by the bed for you. I make a note to remind you to drink when you wake. I tap my fingers against my lips and consider.

Might you fancy a nibble?

* * *

You’re still sleeping when I place the bowl filled with cold grapes beside the flask.

I sigh and decide to arrange the one chair in the room next to the bed and sit and watch you.

Watch over you.

And eat grapes.

Given a choice, I’ll always pick this side.

Your scar.

You scoff when I tell you how beautiful it is. 

The whorls and ridges are known to me, to my eyes, to my fingertips, to my lips, to my tongue. I’ve smeared them with come and wet them with saliva and sweat and, on rare occasion, tears.

It’s part of you and something I never tire of studying. Like a favourite work of art in a favourite museum. Something to revisit and renew passion.

God, you’re beautiful. All of you.

Your hair, soft and disheveled, inviting fingertips to touch and smooth it. Your face, the little I can see, a mask of repose. Your body. Shoulders and back and legs and, Christ, your arse. Flesh and skin feel marvelous between my teeth.

I want to bite. I won’t. Not yet.

I ogle your arse, but the rise and fall of your chest and shoulders, my first indicator of your state as it’s, I have found, the first thing to change when you’re distressed, is never wholly absent from my thoughts.

But that arse. 

I stand and move to the foot of the bed.

There’s a dark triangle of damp on the flat pillow beneath your hips.

_Lick._

The unspoken word is an order. A tiny companion thought, an irrational, rationalising, niggling doubt surfaces.

_Check him. Make certain he’s only stretched, not torn._

It’s a stupid thought. You’ve taken my girthy nine inches hundreds of times, during and outside of heat, roughly and repeatedly and eagerly.

But the Alpha’s insistence on licking and the man’s insistence on knowing your unharmed is enough to send me crawling carefully onto the bed..

My tongue drags up your inner thigh.

You shift and so do I, to the other thigh. You spread your legs.

_You needy cunt._

I roll the pillow and lift you a bit so I can get my mouth where I want it. Tongue-fucking your cunt at this angle is not the easiest, but the taste of you makes any argument to do otherwise moot. Most of me has dripped out. It’s mostly you when I dig deep.

With sharp ears, I catch the quickening of your breath, but you haven’t made any noise. Yet.

I lap greedily. I extend my tongue as far as it will reach and wiggle it.

Your body rewards me by releasing a flood of secretions into my mouth.

The Alpha finds it ambrosial, as welcome as the litres of cold water I poured down my throat minutes earlier in the kitchen.

I drink from your fount. 

Not wanting to wake you any more forcefully than I am, my fingers dig into the bed instead of you.

I pull back gradually and find myself licking around your entrance, slowly, carefully, probing gently and listening for any noise of discomfort.

Suddenly, the silence is broken by a long, blissful sigh.

You spread your legs wider.

With a kiss pressed to your thigh, I rise up.

_Fuck me, Sherlock, fuck me. Only your monstrous prick can fill me. You’ve ruined me for any other._

Good.

_Fuck me while I sleep, Sherlock. You have no idea how wet, how safe it makes me feel. No other Alpha can claim me. It’s an impossibility while your prick’s in me. I can rest. I can just enjoy you, floating on wave after wave…_

Well, if you insist.

I check.

Eyes still closed. Breathing quickening but not quick.

Your words echo.

_Fuck me, Sherlock, fuck me._

My prick is at full mast. I wrap a hand round the shaft and bring the head to your entrance, circling it, caressing the rim, without breeching you.

Once I have a nice rhythm going, I openly admire the view.

Your back, your shoulders, your arms, the way your muscles move, the nape of your neck, that hair, Christ, even the curve your little ears make me weak.

You whimper. My cue. I push the head in.

You lift your arse slightly in invitation.

_You greedy whore._

I push a fraction more in. My eyes scan the bed and find, thankfully within reach, a bottle of lube.

_You’re going to wake with an enormous cock and at least one finger up your arse, John Watson. And you come just from that, well, with perhaps a bit of mindless frotting on the sheets, so much the better. If you don’t, I’ll suck you off when I’m done._

Because at this point, there are no plans to stop.

When my prick is more than half in and my finger sunk to the large knuckle, you let out an ‘O-o-oh!’

Your mind is finally registering the sensations.

I push.

You’ve got all of me now, all my prick, all my index finger. I lean forward and awkwardly press my lips to your back.

I lick.

I can’t help licking.

“My love,” I whisper into your skin.

Then, then, then.

Then you let out the greediest, neediest, most wanton little moan. The silence of the room amplifies it, and it absolutely rips the plaster off my control in one hard, painful jerk.

I grab the lube and clumsily squeeze more onto my hand.

“You’re getting two, no, maybe three, fingers up your arse, you little slut, while I fuck this greedy cunt.”

You mewl at this.

I spare a glance at your face. Your eyes are still shut, but your breathing is coming much quicker. I grab your hip and start to thrust and work another finger inside you.

You try to spread your legs wider. You try to lift your arse higher.

But I’m mounting you good and proper now.

You hum. I know your first words, as soon as you are able to produce more than one syllable, will be…

_Fuck me, Sherlock, fuck me._

You never, ever miss a chance to state the obvious. And this is the one instance where I welcome it.

You take my thrusting beautiful. So easy to find a pace, an angle, an intensity that suits us both.

I’m ready for your words. Are you ready, too?

I wriggle the two fingers which are in your arse while keeping the in-and-out of your cunt as steady as a freight train, and something pops loose inside you.

“Sherlock!”

You say my name in so many ways. Each expression is its own blend of emotions.

This one is lust and love and awe and gratitude.

“What are you?” I ask.

This is as good a gauge as any on how you want to the next few minutes to go.

There’s a whiny little hum of contemplation. The reply is almost muffled by the bed into which your face is pressed.

“Yours. Alpha’s. Prick warmer. Bed warmer.”

“I couldn’t resist, John. I couldn’t wait for you to wake up. I needed my Omega’s cunt. You’re mine. Mine to take pleasure from. Mine to use. You were keeping my prick so warm. I needed to fuck you again. I couldn’t wait. Your hole was too sweet. Both of them, actually. I know you like both holes filled.

“Mm.”

I wriggle the two fingers again, pressing down as my prick thrusts up, squeezing the walls of muscle and tissue between them.

“Sherlock!”

You give me a hard bump, and I am forced to slow my thrusting and adjust myself, pushing up a little more on my knees to give you some space.

“Who are you?” I ask again, not quite certain what you’re going for with these movements but wanting to assist you all the same.

“Bitch in heat. Don’t stop.”

You are a bitch in heat. I’ve seen plenty, and you are marvelous

You rut shamelessly against the pillow while I slam my prick over and over into you and shove a third finger up your arse. 

I come. You’re still rutting. 

Your whine takes on a note of frustration that I don’t like at all.

I jerk prick and fingers out in a abrupt movement that makes you gasp.

“No!” you cry.

Ignoring you, I plummet, crash my face into your crack, and rim your precious arsehole like it holds the secret to the universe.

“SHIT! SHIT! SHI-I-IT!”

If that isn’t you coming, then I don’t know my Omega.

I bite your cheeks and lick along your spine to your neck. I nuzzle at your nape and settle my limp body atop yours.

“Sleep well?” I ask.

“Mm. No thanks to you.” Your voice is warm and syrupy and without reproach. 

“Couldn’t resist.”

“You insatiable bastard.”

I kiss your cheek. We both know it’s a bald-faced lie, but, well, it’s the heat.

At this proximity, I can see every line, every freckle, every hair on your face.

Your lips are far too chapped.

I roll away, towards the bedside table.

“Sherlock, come back. Please.”

I make a tut-tutting noise and roll back, spooning tight behind you on your side, with a small bunch of half a dozen grapes in hand.

I hold them in front of your mouth. You pluck them from the stem with your teeth, one by one, and chew and swallow. 

When the stem is bare, I toss it on the floor.

You are already wriggling a bit, rubbing back against me. I throw a leg over yours, pinning you and grinding back.

You hum contentedly and reach behind us to squeeze my arse. “Love the way my Alpha fucks me,” you say. Your voice is very soft and scratchy and higher pitched than normal. “Love waking up with your big, fat cock inside me. And your fingers, Jesus, Alpha. You give me just what I need.”

I want to smile.

_The Alpha has fucked well, and his Omega is content._

My fingers are on your nipple, teasing it with the edge of my thumb.

We are both breathing harder. The lull is beginning to ebb.

I move my thumb from your nipple to your bottom lip. “I want you to drink some water, John, before we go again.”

When you turn your head, your eyes are half-lidded now, and there is more urgency to the way you rub your arse against my stiffening prick.

“I’ll drink my water,” you say in that breathy, feminine voice, “while you tongue my arse.”

“You extorting little bitch,” I murmur lovingly and kiss the corner of your mouth.

You smile and nod.

* * *

The thermos flask is empty, and my jaw is sore.

We’ve rearranged the pillows so that I am almost sitting, propped up against the headboard. I’ve sucked you off and now you’re sinking down on my prick.

“Oh,” you say coquettishly. “All for me?”

“All nine inches.” 

Once you’re snuggly impaled, you pepper light kisses about my face.

Then you curl your arms over your head and bend at the elbow and breathe deeply.

“God, you smell great, Sherlock.”

You rock in my lap and squeeze my prick very hard with your inner muscles.

“John!”

“Hmm?”

You do it again. You know I love it.

“Minx.” I put my feet firmly on the bed and start to bounce you. “Buckle your seat belt. You’re in for a bumpy ride.”

Between the two of us, enough friction is produced to send me into climax.

I wrap my arms around your waist very tightly and jerk you down while my hips thrust up and spend. 

I look up. You brush the hair from my face.

We kiss. And kiss. And kiss.

Your eyelids are drooping again.

“Are you worn out again, Omega?” I tease. “Where’s your stamina?”

Even under half-lids, you shoot me a look that goes straight to my core.

_You’re going to get it, Alpha._

“Give me five minutes,” you say and tuck your head in the crook of my neck and relax against my chest.

We’re still joined.

“Will you keep my cock warm in the meantime?” I ask.

“Of course. Play with mine a bit?”

“Sure.” I reach and find another of the ubiquitous bottles of lube, there are about a dozen stashed in the bedroom alone, and soon I’m fondling you to half-hardness with one hand. My other hand is rubbing circles on your back.

“Love it,” you sigh. “Oh, Sherlock?”

I bring one finger to your cleft. “Here, too?”

“Just tease the rim. Don’t, you know, push it in. Just keep me, keep me…”

Your words are failing.

The Alpha likes that very much, indeed.

 _The Alpha has fucked well, and his Omega is content._

You let out one long, very contented little moan and go limp, well, except for the one part, against my chest.

Your gentle squirming and quiet noises are enough to keep my prick comfortably inside you.

I feel you slide, degree by degree, into sleep.

Your prick wilts, and your body relaxes into a profound stillness. 

I lick at the spot on the slope of your shoulder which covers your unbroken bonding gland. We are bonded but we are not Bonded and no one, not us, not the experts who study us, know exactly why.

It’s probably the one puzzle in the universe that hold no interest for me.

I have you in my arms. I have you in my life. That’s all that matters. Knowing why won’t change a damn thing. It’s a footnote to the story.

My fingers move from covering your sleeping prick to teasing your nipples to mapping, for the hundredth time, your scar. My other finger moves along your cleft and lightly, very, very lightly, teases your arsehole and your perineum and the seam where my prick and your cunt meet.

You won’t sleep so long this time. Or so deeply.

You’ll be awake in no time and ready to go.

And I’ll be ready and waiting.

To fuck us both raw.

I close my eyes and let my head tilt back and exhale contentment.

You stir briefly and murmur something in your sleep and I think it might be,

“You.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you comment, please be kind.


End file.
